Is Miss Isabella At Home?
by Crush All Illusions
Summary: Isabella tries to win Heathcliff's heart. Isabella/Heathcliff lemon fic which starts (and diverges from canon) at the wedding of Isabella and Heathcliff. Warning: Cathy-lovers will hate this.
1. Chapter 1 - Do You Take This Man

Prologue:

"Everything you hear about me is bad," observed Heathcliff, turning to the horse. "Yet you see some good in me, else why would you be here?"

"Perhaps I am attracted to the bad in you." Isabella smiled at him playfully.

"No. Do not make a joke of it," replied Heathcliff in earnest. "A person who sees good in me is a sensation I experience so rarely that it is enough to make me want to at least try to love you."

And her heart melted.

That was then. This was now.

...

**Chapter 1.**

"And so, by the power vested in me, I now pronounce you Man and Wife," proclaimed the young priest, with all the gravity and majesty due to a pairing that had presumed to hire his church for a mere two-and-sixpence. "You may kiss the bride!"

Father Roberts couldn't put his finger on why he felt so uncomfortable giving this blessing to a man in the first seconds of marriage, but perhaps it was the coldness in his eyes as he turned to his bride, as though this wedding would be sealed not by love, but by hatred.

Or was it rather the look he saw in hers? As though she would flee the altar at a moment's notice were he to give his blessing? As though he had married her, not to a man she would love and who might cherish her in his turn, but rather to a captor whom she knew would only imprison and destroy her?

Whatever the reason, he could hardly withdraw his blessing now. And so, before an audience of strangers called to witness the event, with not a friend in sight, the swarthy man with hate in his eyes pulled the poor girl to his breast, and claimed her for his own.

Then he looked up, and smiled congenially at the room. "Excellent!" he cried merrily, as though he had just been paid off, rather than married. "Come on then, my love."

And he casually dropped five guineas into the collecting bowl as he left.

...

He had not told her where they would go or what they would do for their honeymoon. _Though it couldn't have hurt to ask him,_ she thought to herself.

The carriage lurched and juddered sickeningly on the cobbled pathway, as it had for the past two hours. They had ridden long and hard, with not a stop since leaving the church, and she wondered if her new husband even had a destination planned, or if he merely planned to continue past nightfall, when the moon and stars would shine on their union, and even the lamps in the streets would hide from them in darkness.

She wished he would speak: he had not said a word since they entered the carriage. Instead, he simply sat there gazing at her, as though she were a stranger to him. Or worse still, some mildly interesting specimen that bore careful, detached observation.

"Will you not speak to me?" she finally blurted out.

He looked at her politely, smiled, and said nothing.

"Heathcliff!" she burst out. "For God's sake, will you not speak to your own bride?"

His eyes lit up, a sudden warmth filling those cold eyes. It was a look she had scarcely seen since he had first caught her heart in their meetings at Thrushcross Grange.

"But of course, m'dear," he smiled. "And what, pray, would you have me speak about?"

She found herself suddenly lost for words. "Well…"

He said nothing, merely arched an eyebrow and waited with seemingly endless patience for her to continue.

"Where are we going?" she managed at last. "Where shall we spend our honeymoon?"

He smiled wider, then looked out of the window. A mist had come down like a shroud across the land, and for her part, Isabella could see little but the dim glow of oil lamps that could have been any distance from them. More than a little unnerved, she returned her eyes to his face.

Heathcliff, for his part, was entirely unfazed by this eerie scene. Instead, he seemed only more confident and assured of himself. It was as though, in some devilish fashion, he drew strength from his wife's growing fear.

"Here," he replied shortly. "We shall stay here."

And he tapped his cane on the roof.

...

"Bed down the horses for the night," Heathcliff commanded the innkeeper briskly. "My bride and I shall be staying here for the night."

_He had no plan? Nothing prepared? He thought only to stop when it seemed convenient?_ She was used to his whimsy, for certain, but to be so reckless with their honeymoon… It was as though he truly did not care.

A couple of grimy figures sat by the inn, their features obscured by the mist and their own hunched deportments. They tipped their hats politely enough to her as she passed them, but she could not shake the uncomfortable feeling that they looked for all the world like the worst kind of cut-throats. She would feel comforted by the presence of her strong, wild husband, were it not for the horrid thought that settled in her mind: _Would he even care enough to protect me, should they mean me harm?_

Dinner was a filling but poor meal of bread and cheese, with ale on the house, "in celebration of your happy event, ma'am," as the smiling barman had put it. His amiable countenance stirred a strange gladness in her, as she fancied one might feel when abroad in foreign and hostile land, and finally encountering a familiar face. The scars that marred his face and forearms might have intimidated her, a lifetime ago, but after the experience of the day, she found herself quite ready to accept the simple joy of congeniality, be it ever so humble.

It would have helped her mood no end if she actually liked ale.


	2. Chapter 2 - To Have And To Hold

**Note to readers: This chapter contains some sexual content. Reader discretion is advised.**

His hands were rough against her skin as he removed her stays. So often had she thought in wonder of this event, the thought of holding his powerful form in her embrace, and yet now, in this bare, impersonal room, she felt only a strange discomfort in his presence.

In this moment he was a stranger, a villain; he was a knife in the darkness upon which she now could only fall, and hope, against all hope, that he would not fatally wound her in the event.

"Don't look at me," he muttered as they lay together, his eyes blank and cold. For a moment, she turned her face away, but then, as though drawn by some desperate need, she turned her eyes once more to the face of her love.

"Don't look at me!" he snapped, sternly.

"But why?" she gasped. "Why can I not look upon my own husband when –"

He bent his head low into the crook of her shoulder. When he spoke, his breath was warm on her neck. "Your eyes are like those of your brother's," he said. "And when I see them, all I crave is to cause hurt, and pain, and suffering."

Isabella could not speak. Her own lover could not look her in the eyes? Unbidden, a tear welled up in her eye, and she spat her words without thinking, in a haze of agonised emotion. "Well, you've hurt me now." Her voice caught in her throat.

He rose himself up then, and at last gazed upon her. His eyes followed her traitorous tear as it crept across her cheek. She was suddenly acutely aware of her body, of her heart beating, of his skin against hers, of her desperate lungs sucking in hated breath from the stagnant air about them.

"Aye, I have," he breathed in wonderment, and his gaze settled at last on her, no longer observing her tear as it freely betrayed her feelings to him, but instead fixed solely upon _her_, viewing the torment of her very soul.

"And what a change is come," he added. Suddenly, his hips moved hard against her, his face now filled with a dark satisfaction. "I can look upon you now."

...

Lying in the dark, but a little later, she considered weeping for her lost innocence, or perhaps more, for the hurt her own love had inflicted on her with his hateful words. And yet, somehow, her tears were stilled, and her heart was strangely calm. It was as though, now that Heathcliff no longer needed her pain or tears, they would lie dormant until he claimed them once again. The thought was horrible, and yet, in its own way, a strange comfort to her.

She would never again cry without purpose. All her tears would now, at least, be put to use.

...

The mists hung heavy over the town, blurring the light of dawn to a dull haze. Heathcliff, accustomed as he was to working the hours of a servant, had risen long before her, and made the horses ready in preparation for the day's journey. He had not troubled to wake her, and so, on her first morning married, Isabella woke alone in a strange room.

All that she owned was held within a trunk in her corner of the room: having left her brother's house for good, with all familial ties now severed, she was compelled to carry her goods with her as they travelled, as any vagrant might do.

She had not dressed unaided in years, having been accustomed to the help of a maid. She was struggling desperately with her corset, her body twisted in awkward contortions and her mind in despair at the thought of presenting herself to the world improperly dressed, when a knock sounded at the chamber door.

It was a timid and gentle knock, but Isabella jumped with shock just as though the door had opened itself on a crowd to expose her embarrassing state of disarray.

"Excuse me, ma'am?" came a querying voice from beyond the door. It could not have belonged to a woman of any great age, for it was high and sweet, and full of the kind concern which marks the nature of the young and naïve.

"I've come to help you, ma'am," the voice went on. "Your 'usband said as 'ow you'd be needing of it, since you didn't bring yer maid with you."

Gasping with relief, and thankful at last to Heathcliff for sparing her at least that thought, Isabella smiled and called back, "Yes, if you please. I'm so grateful."

The door now opened on a lively-looking girl of about sixteen, who Isabella vaguely recognised as the barmaid Nancy, who had served them on occasion the night before, and who she had found herself liking immediately. "There, ma'am," she said encouragingly. "You've made a good start of it, if I may say so, but if you'll let me help you put it all to rights, we shall have you looking every bit as presentable as befits a new bride."

There was excitement in the girl's voice, and an eager curiosity as well. "If I may be so bold as to ask, ma'am," she added, as she unlaced Isabella's corset and began the lacing again from scratch, "what's it like to be a bride?"

Isabella found herself lost for words. She did not know whether to scold the girl for impertinence, or to caution her against ever considering the thought of matrimony. At last, she managed, "It is as good a thing as is the husband, and I shall say no more on the matter, never mind how you should press me."

The girl's eyes were shining as she came round to face Isabella. "I should love to get married some day," she sighed. "You must feel so lucky, to have such a husband as he."

Isabella's eyes widened in shock. _That _was impertinent.

Nancy seemed to suddenly realise the implications of what she had said, for she put her hand to her mouth and breathed, "Oh, ma'am, I'm sorry! I didn't mean – I meant, to have a man as generous as he is! Why, he offered me a whole guinea just to help you: see?" The coin gleamed in her hand as she brought it out for show, before slipping it back into the pocket of her apron. "He seemed to care very much for your comfort, and said I was to take every caution to see that you was happy and content."

Isabella was struck dumb, and spoke not a word more until she was dressed.


	3. Chapter 3 - Honest People

Their coach left directly after breakfast, and lurched its way drunkenly through the town. The mist had at last begun to clear during their meal, and Isabella now could see clearly from her window. That the weekly cattle market was in flow was evidenced not merely by vision, but by the pungent smell of the beasts as they were driven through the town; more than once, they were forced to stop the coach to allow some drover to pass with a herd.

The church, where they stopped to pray at their driver's polite insistence, resembled nothing so much as a flamboyant cage for believers, its stonework pitted with age and neglect, the structure seeming more a hated prison than a sanctuary of God. She was reminded uncomfortably of the architecture she had observed at Wuthering Heights, and when they finally left the church (Heathcliff having stood stoically in the nave, neither kneeling nor so much as bowing his head), she was filled with trepidation for her return there.

As they neared the coach, they found their way impeded by a small crowd which had gathered in the town square. Drawing nearer, they found the cause of the commotion to be a dark-haired youth of about fourteen, clearly in a state of nervous terror surpassing Isabella's own.

He was seated uncomfortably on the stone ground, his legs thrust out in front and held in a set of stocks, which prevented the lad from so much as kicking his bare feet in protest, whilst his upper body was left unguarded and exposed to the torments of the populace. They had come prepared for him, their hands clutching all manner of waste food, lumps of mud, and even, Isabella was disturbed to see, a few stones.

Heathcliff saw them too. He marched to the front of the crowd, pushing aside men, women and children alike, and called to the magistrate who was supervising the locking of the harsh device. "What crime is this lad here for?"

The magistrate looked up, took in Heathcliff's fine clothes and elegant bearing, and promptly adjusted his expression to one more suitably respectful. "Poaching, sir," he replied, "and 'tis the hope that this lesson shall set him back on the straight path of righteousness."

Heathcliff's mouth set in a hard line. "Aye," he muttered to himself bitterly, so low that only Isabella could hear, "if none o' these righteous bastards don't take an eye out first." Louder, he called back, "What fine should be paid for his release?"

The boy looked up in shock, and not a little mistrust. Was this some cruel trick, to give him some false hope of reprieve before leaving him again to the doubtful mercy of the mob?

The crowd, too, were shocked, and more so was the magistrate. "Well, sir," he stammered, "'twas about five shillings and sixpence worth of property he stole, but the crime itself carries a heavy penalty –"

He broke off as Heathcliff reached into his pocket. "Take a sovereign, and let him go," he demanded, and carelessly flipped the coin in the man's general direction. He tossed a couple of shillings at the men who had just locked the poor boy in, who excitedly grabbed the coins from the mud before looking once more to the fastenings.

Isabella felt a strange conflict within her. Certainly the crime should be punished, and surely the reason was just, but her heart was moved to pity by the boy's plight, and she felt an overwhelming gladness at his release. Was she good, then, or wicked? Was her concern for the boy, and by consequence her joy at this reprieve, a show of goodness, or a signal of a rebellious and damnable spirit?

Before she could make a decision about herself one way or the other, Heathcliff grabbed her wrist and pulled her firmly forward towards the carriage. As they passed the boy, who was scrambling to his feet from his former ignominious position, she heard Heathcliff mutter quietly to him, "Now don't get yerself caught next time, neither."

...

They travelled homewards all day, with but a single stop for a picnic lunch, which Heathcliff had procured from the inn. Isabella tried on numerous occasions to catch her husband's attention, but he sat in what seemed to be a melancholy preoccupation, his hands playing with a coin, turning it this way and that, and spinning it idly around his fingers so that it would first gleam in the light, then disappear, then reappear a moment later – though Isabella could not see clearly whether the coin was a shilling, a half-crown or merely a groat, and she began to suspect she was seeing one of each in turn as his deft fingers crossed each other, in the manner of a well-practised trickster. It seemed his custom to practise such sleight of hand whenever he was distracted by something, for his gaze never travelled to his hands, but rather remained transfixed on the view from his window.

Presently, the driver announced that the horses were beginning to tire, and it would be unkind to press them much further. Heathcliff, who had paid scant attention to Isabella, gave his full attention to this pronouncement, and demanded they stop as soon as they reached Bradford, which by the driver's experienced reckoning was but a half hour away.

...

Bradford, however, proved quite incapable of supporting their needs for the night, for there seemed no vacancies were available anywhere. After some questioning of the locals, the driver finally announced he had been recommended to the Stansfield Arms, which lay not far outside the town.

This recommendation, it seemed, was well deserved, for the landlord welcomed them most kindly, and when it emerged that the couple were newlyweds, his joy seemed boundless. "For," said he, "my own wedding was t'happiest day of my life, and I'm sure my Martha could say the same for her own sake. Now, on that subject, I shall ask her to prepare a room, and you shall sit yerselves down by the fire and have a good meal. And should you have need of anything, do say, for I shall be happy to oblige."

Heathcliff smiled and nodded, and shook the man's hand, and thanked him kindly, and when the man had left for the kitchen, he grunted darkly, "I despise him already."

"Heathcliff!" she admonished him. "How can you say so, when he has shown us both nothing but kindness, and has given you no reason to hate him at all?"

"He has known happiness," he replied, "and I shall never feel anything but resentment to him for it. And don't you try to persuade me as to feel otherwise. For if he had known misery and suffering, then he should be a different man, and had I known his joy and delight, no doubt I would be different myself. I shall _not_ like him, no, not one bit, but I shall ever hate him and all who share his happy lot."

Isabella could think of little to say. She thought to admonish him further for his sinful jealousy, but when she looked into his eyes, grown cold and hard with turmoil and suffering, and thought on what had been done to him in the name of righteousness, and how merciful he had been to a poor frightened youth earlier that same day, she found the thought seemed only churlish and cruel.

And so they ate once more in silence.


	4. Chapter 4 - Forsaking All Others

He slept fitfully that night. More than once, Isabella was wakened by his moaning, as though he were tortured by an ache that could never be soothed. She stroked his hair, held him, murmured sweet reassurances in his troubled ear, and indeed sometimes he seemed to recover. But soon he would begin again, thrashing in his sleep, a high keening issuing from his throat, or sometimes low, furious groans that betrayed rages born of years spent in anguish.

Again and again she sought to comfort him, turned her every thought to showing him such gentleness as might relieve his hurt, though her own thoughts became hazy through lack of sleep.

And then, just as the moon emerged from behind the cloaking cover of a heavy cloud, and began to shine brightly onto his sweating, laboured face, she heard him speak.

"Oh, my love…" he murmured desperately.

"I'm here, my love," she whispered back. "I'm here, it's all right, you can trust me, I shall be good to you, you need not fear -"

"Oh, my love," he moaned again. "Are you here? Come here to me, please, come back to me, please come back, Cathy…"

It was a dagger to her heart, a blade of ice that tore at every nerve, threatening her emotional ruin. Tears sprang unbidden to her eyes, and she desperately fanned her face, seeking to keep her despair at bay – or at least, to prevent herself from revealing it openly. She glanced again at her husband, seeking to provide some further solace, if only to distract herself from her own suffering.

But Heathcliff was now sound asleep again, his face calm and peaceful, as though Cathy's mere name had soothed his agonised soul in a way that all her gentleness, and all her charm, and all her reassurances, could not.

The next morning found her alone again, Heathcliff having chosen not to stay with her when he rose. Isabella was exhausted, having had so little sleep, and that so poor. When she raised her eyes to the looking glass, she saw tears dried on her face; her eyes were bloodshot, and her cheeks were red.

Had he seen her when he woke? Had he looked across to her, noticed her tears? She could not decide what would have been worse, for him to have left without even seeing her distress, or for him to have seen it, and done nothing.

A knock on the door signalled the approach of Martha, the innkeeper's plump and jovial wife, who had been paid by Heathcliff to dress her this morning. She was possessed of a remarkably pretty face that positively twinkled with kindness and affection, and despite her relatively poor circumstances seemed the happiest of women. Isabella wished she could take some comfort from the woman's presence, but Heathcliff's words from the night before rang true in her head, and her heart was torn between gratitude and affection for the woman's generosity, and doubtful, bitter speculations on how Martha would feel, were she in Isabella's own painful position.

At last she could no longer stand her own confusion, and just as the kind lady was evening up the laces on her stays, she finally broke down, allowing her tears to flow freely once more.

"Why, my dear, whatever's the matter?" asked Martha. "Has something happened, my dear? And can I be of some assistance to you? for it saddens me to see such a pretty creature as you in pain."

"Oh, Martha," wept Isabella. "I could not tell you, 'twould be wrong of me to tell you…"

The lady's expression changed to one of deepest sympathy. "Oh dear," she said, "I think I may have some understanding. Let me ask you this, child, and I swear I shall take your answer to the grave: Is it he who has hurt you, or another who has affected him?"

Isabella hesitated, but it seemed her eyes must have betrayed her, for the woman continued, "Well, love is a tricky thing, and I'm no poet or preacher as could understand its deepest mysteries, but I will tell you what I can, if you'll pardon my taking the liberty, and you may take or leave my advice as you see fit."

She took a breath as she pulled at Isabella's stays, and went on, "If a man loves a woman, he will pursue her, and no doubt about it. But pursuit, my dear, is only half the game. You know a man's worth when he catches her, and how he is to her then. Now I know little enough of you, and less still of your husband, but I do know this: he requested I aid you with your stays, and that means he pays attention to the things some men might forget. That makes him a man you can trust, in my eyes, and a man worth obeying, as well. Never forget that – we women must obey our husbands. I learned that from my mother, who learned it from hers, and 'tis from t'Bible, too, so you can know it's true. I have obeyed my William, as best I can, for the last twenty-five years, and a happier couple than ourselves we have never seen."

"Now," she went on, "if your husband treats you wrongly, my dear, I cannot well advise you, for my Willie is as good a man as I've ever known, but I do know that if a man seems harsh or cold, a woman's soft words and rightful obedience will set things straight in a few days. And should he seem distracted by another – and make no mistake, my love, it does happen! – should that be the case, then remember this always: he married you, not another. And whatever his reason, whatever his cause, and whatever his present distraction, you, and you alone, are his wife. And that means something, girl, it means more than you or I can comprehend, for 'tis a blessing from God hisself."

"And," asked Isabella, "what if there should be someone, someone he might have married had he been able to? Will I always be a second? Will it always be Cathy before me -?"

She buried her face in her hands, her palms growing wet with tears, her hands filling with the evidence of her pain.

Martha was silent for a long time, but held her in an embrace, as a mother might comfort her crying child. At last, when Isabella's sobs had quieted to a despairing whisper, she murmured gently, "Well now, there you've spelled it out for me, and I shall advise you further."

"Now my William," she continued, "has been my sweetheart for a long time, but do not imagine that I was the first subject of his affections. No, when I met him, he had his heart set on another – I imagine, perhaps, she may have been like this 'Cathy'."

"Her name was Abigail, and she was a beauty, I'll not deny it. Captured his heart, or so she may have thought, and so I thought at the time. Pined over her, he did, and still held a little flame for her even when we first came together. But I'll tell you this for nowt: she's living in Bradford still, and e'en comes into this same pub, and I'll serve her with a smile, fearing no harm from her, nor stirrings in his heart; for after five years of our fine marriage, with my obedience and support to bolster his love, he'd forgotten the lass's very name!"

A mischievous grin came over her face then, and the twinkle in her eye seemed to somehow sharpen in conspiratorial malevolence. "And do you know what else? After twenty-five years… She still comes in alone."


	5. Chapter 5 - In Such A Den

Wuthering Heights was a forbidding place, quite the opposite of everything she had known at Thrushcross Grange. No servants stood ready to welcome them as they arrived, no lights were at the windows, and not a sound came from within. Even in the middle of the afternoon, the place seemed only cold and dark. If a house could be said to be alive, and her beloved childhood home had always seemed to her to be something of a living entity in itself, then Wuthering Heights seemed as though it had died long ago, and been forgotten and left on the moors to rot there forever more.

"Stay here, now," commanded Heathcliff, as he stepped from the carriage. "Joseph shall see to you."

And he stepped from the coach, his greatcoat flapping madly in the harsh winds like the sails of a ship soon to be dashed against rocks.

"Joseph!" he bellowed, striding away from her towards the house, and a great baying of hounds started up from within in response to his call. "Joseph, you bastard! Damn you, where are you?"

He flung open the doors, and from them burst three animals, barking and growling like wild beasts. Heathcliff seemed unfazed by their wildness, though, for he effortlessly wrestled with them one-handed, in playful yet distracted sport, and paid them no attention besides this aggressive greeting.

And then he was gone, still calling all manner of foul obscenities and curses towards the servant, and the time, and the very house itself, and Isabella felt a chill at the realisation that every exclamation was truly a heartfelt expression of desire for the torment of those who had wronged him.

And the dogs came running.

...

Joseph was roused from his afternoon prayers by the blasphemous callings of a familiar voice, and 'twas one he had hoped never to hear again, for it stirred him to righteous fury to cast his eyes upon a soul so obviously and painfully damned. More worrisome still was the baying of the hounds, for they only sounded so when they were excited. And whilst they may only have thought of play, Joseph knew only too well how many awful accidents could be caused by a dog that knew not its own strength.

He did not even stop to blow out the candle as he tore from the room and out through the side door, bursting forth from the house like an avenging angel, or so he fancied himself to appear. The dogs were almost at the carriage now, and terror for its occupant gave him strength where otherwise his legs may have failed him.

"Get away, now!" he yelled, his words all but lost in the gale. "Come away, boys!"

But the dogs paid him no heed; indeed, he doubted they could even hear him over the wind and their own barking. The carriage rocked as they each slammed into it, their excitement carrying them forward, overcoming their ability to so much as slow down, much less stop.

"Hello, boys!" came a voice from within, and Joseph froze. That was a woman's voice! Surely it could not be Isabella, the bride of that devil Heathcliff, whose wretched name he had read in the banns. Poor creature, that she should have her fate intertwined with such a man – if indeed a man he was, and not some devil sent from hell – for what earthly mother, he reasoned to himself, could spawn such a dubious malcontent?

"Hello!" cried the voice again, and it was full of playfulness, and quite merry. The dogs were no less exuberant: they jumped against the carriage window in a gambolling frenzy, falling over each other in their joyful vigour. Joseph was astonished to hear no fear in the voice, but rather a note of enraptured joy, as of one who, after thinking they might never see a friendly face again, were confronted suddenly with amiable countenances once more.

"Miss?" he called out uncertainly, and with no small amount of hesitation, for the fearful thought struck him that perhaps, in Miss Isabella Linton, the devil Heathcliff had found some woman demonic enough to match him, and surely he and all the house were doomed, if such was the case.

He took a moment to draw some strength from his faith, as he always did when doubt gave him any pause, and called again, far stronger this time, "Miss? Are you all right? Are you quite safe?"

An arm extended from the window, and stroked the head of each dog as it passed, calming their barking if not their frolicking. Then the arm was followed by a face he recognised well, for he had seen her many times when her family came visiting, and many times more at church.

Miss Linton – or, as he supposed he must now think of her, Mrs. Heathcliff – looked no more devilish, and no less pretty, than when last he had seen her in church. Rather, she looked quite spirited, and quite at home amongst this pack of hounds. "Hello, Joseph!" she called cheerfully. "Thank you for coming to see to the coach; I fear my husband has abandoned it as he has abandoned me."

"Mistress," Joseph gasped as he approached further, "you are not hurt? Or much alarmed? I do apologise for the dogs, missus, they will not be tamed, they simply will not…"

He tailed off as he took in her face, and the way she stepped effortlessly from the carriage, still stroking and patting the huge dogs, not minding one jot when they jumped up at her or bumped her legs in forceful play. "Oh, Joseph," she responded gaily, "we had dogs such as these back home at Thrushcross Grange, and there was never a hound of ours that frightened me. And not one of these boys is so malevolent as was our Skulker; why, they only want a bit of play, and I shall be sure to give it to 'em! Here, boys!"

And lifting her skirts to keep from dirtying her dress, she led them away, barking loudly, and ran them in a merry dance, moving ever towards the house in a blurred ring of dust, and fur, and noise.

Joseph looked after her in some considerable confusion; then, shaking his head, turned to the horses. He was never so good with them as was Heathcliff, he would admit that, but the Lord would guide him, and keep him just as safe as was that damned wretch, of that he had no doubt.

Isabella took the servant's entrance with the dogs, and disappeared into the little kitchen.


	6. Chapter 6 - In My Ragged Company

Isabella's face was flushed as she entered the small kitchen: she had not enjoyed herself so much in quite some time. Indeed, she had almost forgotten the misery of her hopeless matrimony in the fleeting whirl of play she had shared with the dogs, who now left her side to pounce upon their meal, which lay in the far corner by the open hearth.

Isabella pulled up short at the sight of the wretch sat at the table. His pudgy face glistened with an unhealthy sweat; he smelled of stale beer and dirt; and his clothes, though of excellent quality and station, were unwashed and grimy. What was more shocking than anything else was how long it took for her to recognise this awful, bloated toad of a man: not three years ago, Mr. Hindley had been her gracious if elitist host, who had taken great pride in punishing Mr. Heathcliff's insolence.

She had rarely seen him since he had given away his sister to Isabella's own brother, but she had heard that his drinking had become a concern for the household. _If the Temperance movement ever needed a shining example of the dangers of drink_, she reflected, _they would surely find it here._

Beside his right hand lay a flintlock pistol that, on cursory examination, appeared to be the newest and cleanest item in the entire room, from beneath the barrel of which emanated a vile-looking blade in the manner of a large hunting knife. He snatched the gun up in his hand upon her entry, and turned an unsteady gaze upon her. It was most unsettling that his gun found her face before his eyes did, and still more so that it remained steadily pointed at her even as his eyes shifted awkwardly to focus.

"Miss Linton?" he asked. The tone of his enquiry would have been more welcome had there been the slightest trace of warmth in it; instead, it was as though he had been checking whether she made a suitable target for his bullets, and finding her to be who she was, had now all but lost interest.

"I am she as once was Miss Linton," replied Isabella, as formally as she could manage whilst trying to look past the pistol to his face – though she found the sight of his perspiring face so nauseating that it became difficult to distinguish which was the more horrible sight, "but, being now married, I am obliged to refer to myself, I suppose, as Mrs. Heathcliff."

He started at the mention of the name, and his finger tightened on the trigger. She thought, in sudden alarm, that he was going to shoot her then and there for her very words.

"Heathcliff!" he snarled. "Then have you brought that cuckoo gypsy bastard with you?"

"He left me," she replied shortly, "and went off somewhere in the house; and as I knew not where to go, I came in here with the dogs."

She thought for a moment that he might tear off through the house to search for him, there to do all manner of brutal mischief; but as it was, the murderous spirit seemed to leave him, and he instead slouched sullenly at the table, and as his right hand replaced his weapon upon the table, his left groped for the flagon of half-drunk beer, apparently without any conscious prompting from his addled brain.

Isabella decided then and there to quit the man's odious company, having apparently stayed her full welcome and then some, to judge from his demeanour. She made for the door out of the kitchen, taking care to circuit herself around the table so as to maintain some distance between herself and the figure who now poured beer idly in the vague direction of his mouth, apparently careless of the fact that a great quantity of it slopped onto his sideburns, and dripped from his chin to his grimy waistcoat.

The dogs paid her no heed as she passed them, each apparently content to lie in their designated alcoves around the room, and she stepped through the open doorway as silently as she could, so as not to attract more attention than she could help from any of those she left at her back.

As she passed through the house, Isabella developed the distressing feeling that she was being watched; she could all but feel the gaze directed upon her. Doubtless Joseph would have attributed this to God's all-knowingness, but Isabella felt quite sure that God's gaze would feel neither so wild, nor so malevolent, to her.

She turned, once and then again, in hopes of catching whomever was staring so: for she was convinced, now, that this was the case; but each time she saw no-one. At last, she felt her temper rise; and, stepping smartly to the entry to a stairwell, she belligerently thrust her head around the corner, in hopes of catching whatever miscreant were giving her such an uncomfortable presentiment.

"Now, what is the meaning of – oh!" she exclaimed; and with good reason, for before her squatted a small boy, of some five or six years, whose manner of dress was almost as appalling as that of his father.

Despite his young age, Hareton Earnshaw nonetheless looked every inch a ruffian: as dirty as the dogs she had just left, and as villainous as the lad Heathcliff had saved from the stocks not two days before. His eyes glared at her, as though she were the architect of some grievous misfortune of his, and he was only deferring his vengeance now to be sure of greater retribution when the time came.

"Are you Mrs Heathcliff now?" the boy asked. His eyes were wary, yet his malevolent rage seemed to have cooled upon recognising her, and Isabella took this as a fortunate sign indeed, for of all the household, she was beginning to suspect, this boy would be the most fiendish enemy, and she felt glad indeed that she appeared not to have incurred his wrath.

She felt, in fact, quite sorry for whoever it was that had; and then collected herself with an assurance that this child was but, indeed, a child, and not beyond chastisement or discipline, should it be required; and, furthermore, a reminder to herself that as Mr. Heathcliff's wife, she was a quite legitimate authority to the boy.

"I am," she replied therefore, in as dignified a manner as she could muster, whilst endeavouring to remain approachable, so as not to alienate the boy. "And that is a most proper form of address; I must compliment you on your manners, young man."

She smiled as sweetly as she could at him, and hoped the while that her treatment of the loathsome little lad would achieve the desired result.

It did not. He paused for a moment, apparently rather put out by the association, in the same sentence, of himself and the word _manners_, and then asked, quite offhand, "So will there be uncleanliness betwixt you and he, then?"

Isabella knew not what to say. She was conscious, immediately, of a blush spreading across her chest and face (the fact of which only increased her embarrassment), and found herself struck dumb by his impertinence. She could not think, not for a moment, of what to say: nothing in her upbringing, _nothing_, had ever prepared her with a response to such cheek.

At last she managed to bite out, in scandalised tones that stopped just short of fury, "Where did you hear of such a thing, young man?" (She was conscious of censoring herself throughout the sentence; had she spoken the words that had actually come her mind, she was certain to have destroyed any good feeling between the boy and herself, and disgraced herself into the bargain.)

"Joseph."

"Of course," replied Isabella, all righteous fury gone out of her, now replaced instead by a dull resignation at the sound of his name.

"He says marriage is the only time God'll smile on a sin," the boy continued, "and that e'en then, 'tis right and proper to beg for forgiveness once 'tis done."

"I'm sure he does," Isabella smiled wryly back, "for, having heard of his character, I would not be surprised to hear from you that Joseph insisted you beg forgiveness from God for seeing your own bare wrists when you wash your hands."

If she thought the boy would be pleased, or that a sense of camaraderie could be established on the foundation of her jibe, she was wrong.

The boy simply nodded, gravely. "He does, that. And he beats me every time I've had a full wash, for he says I must have happened to see summat to deserve't. He never said what, though, so I don't know what I should avoid looking at."

Isabella, for her part, was having trouble deciding which she could less believe: that a grown man might beat a child for washing; or that this filthy imp should have any familiarity with washing at all. Though, she had to admit to herself, if the child told the truth (and the more she reflected upon the character of Joseph, the easier it was to believe), she could well understand why the boy remained so filthy.

All of a sudden, she was aware of a shadow cast across her back and onto the stairs; the boy's attention turned immediately from her to look over her shoulder at the newcomer, and the boy smiled; it was the first smile she had seen on the lad, and it transformed his visage completely. From the sullen, impudent youth she had just spoken to, he now appeared a somewhat grimy angel, his eyes lit up with a sparkle that she recognised from the eyes of her brother's wife. She had not seen any family resemblance between the boy and his aunt Catherine until now, and the sight wrought in her a great homesickness, and a surprising longing for the company of her stuffy brother and his jealous, spiteful wife.

She was so taken in staring at the boy's face, that for a full second she was utterly heedless of who it was that stood at her back. When she turned, she saw that it was Heathcliff, looking more animated than she had yet seen him, and with a peculiar smile on his face that she had never before seen. It seemed this expression was reserved for the child who now bounded down the stairs, all excitement and merriment.

"Now, now, m'boy, what ill-mannered pleasantries have you been exchanging with my wife?" asked he, his voice somehow sounding both stern and amused at the same time.

This feat, common as it was amongst most people, was nonetheless one Isabella had never mastered herself, managing only to sound either severe or petulant in the attempt, and so she had eventually resolved to avoid any ambivalence in her tone, and rather to restrict her voice to expressing only one emotion at a time, for fear of confusion and unpleasant misunderstandings. She felt rather embarrassed at just how impressive she found this ability in her husband, and resolved never to mention it.

"We was talking of Joseph, and why you must beg for forgiveness every night once you're married," the boy answered him earnestly. "Only, I think she doesn't want to beg each night, for she laughed at Joseph for the very thought."

"Indeed!" Heathcliff laughed. "And has it occurred to you that perhaps it is not that Joseph is wrong, but rather that she will not beg forgiveness because she is naught but a dirty slut?"

Isabella bristled, and would have quit the area in a temper, but she found herself caught between Hareton and Heathcliff, so that there was nowhere for her to flee without pushing past them, and ruining any potential dignity she might have left in the course of her escape.

Instead, she could only watch as the boy's honest little face creased up in thought. "I don't know what a slut is," he said at last, "but she seems clean to me. I don't expect no-one's ever beaten her for washing herself," he added bitterly, "for she's shiny all over wi' clean, there's not a touch o' dirt on 'er."

"Well now, happen you're right about the washing," Heathcliff smiled in a fatherly fashion, "but as to a slut: well, a slut is a shameless little harlot, and a dirty one at that." He directed this last comment at Isabella herself, looking directly in her face as though to gauge how much pain he might be causing her, before turning back to the boy. "So what say you, now I've given you an explanation?"

Isabella opened her mouth to defend herself against Heathcliff's coarse degradation of her character, but Hareton replied before she could marshal a defence, "Nay, then she ain't a slut, for she blushed at me, and Joseph said shameless people don't blush. Look, she's doing it again, now!" he cried, pointing to her bosom with an air of triumph. "So that proves it, don't it?" he added, with a dash of glee at having won his case.

Isabella could take no more, and finding her pint-sized, yet stalwart, defender to have shifted position as he spoke, fled past him up the stairs, in search of any room which she might enter, there to bar the door against friend and foe alike.


	7. Chapter 7 - To Love, Honour And Obey

Isabella dashed along the upper level of Wuthering Heights, seeking solitude in vain, for she found no rooms that were not both shut and barred against her entry: she began to wonder whether the house itself bore her a grudge for some inexplicable slight against its very stones.

At last she came to a door which yielded to her hand, and she pushed through into the small chamber that lay beyond, with first a sigh of relief, and next a sob of mortified despair. How was she to live with this monster, who sought to teach the very youngest member of this depraved household that she, a lady of manners and decorum, was to be seen as nothing more than a slattern, to be shamed and ridiculed?

She sat for some time with her head in her hands, upon a small bed to the side of the room. When at last she rose her gaze to take in the room, she found it rather bare and forbidding: a few possessions, mostly clothes, lay strewn untidily about the floor. The bed was too small for a grown man or woman: this could only be Hareton's room.

...

A knock sounded at the door. It fell too heavy to be Hareton: no child knocked like that, no matter how wild or dirty. She thought for a moment, weighing her chances of pleasant, or at least tolerable, company.

On reflection, her chances were not good, for besides Hareton, she had so far seen only three people here: Joseph, Hindley and her own Heathcliff. That last man might have been her preferred possibility, had she not just witnessed him blackening her name to the child; and to her face, at that!

She felt sure, now, that this could only have been another attempt to hurt her. He had derived such satisfaction from doing so in their honeymoon bed that she could not believe he did not take spiteful joy in having wounded her pride. She did not know whether it would be best to put a brave face on his slights, so as to frustrate his efforts out of spite against him; or to allow herself to weep in his sight, in hopes that, having derived his satisfaction, he might then desist, at least until the next time the inclination took him.

The knock sounded again, and she realised she had failed to answer, being, as she was, lost in her thoughts.

"Who is it?" she at last managed, endeavouring as best she could to keep her emotions from her voice, and only marginally succeeding.

"'Tis I," came Heathcliff's voice, and her heart seemed to both sink and rise, if such were possible: it sank at hearing the voice of her cruel tormentor, and yet somehow leapt to hear the voice of a man she loved.

Was it some sickness that caused her to love this monster of a man? Or was it, instead, a good and glorious thing to love her lawful wedded husband, no matter what he might do to her body or her pride?

Before she could answer her own silent riddle, the latch snapped open and Heathcliff stepped in, without so much as an enquiry as to whether his company were welcome, or even permissible. He loomed in the doorway, his black hair framing his handsome face, his dark eyes probing her face as he could observe her soul by so doing. She rather fancied, at that moment, that perhaps he could.

"And what are you doing, skulking in here like a dog in hiding?" he asked curtly.

"I was hurt," she replied, deciding honesty was her only option. "And I required to be alone, so as to gather my thoughts."

"Well, you can gather your thoughts while you work," he replied. "There's washing to be done and the kitchen floor wants scrubbing. It always does when Hindley's been in there," he added sourly, with the tone of one who knew this only from long and dreary personal experience.

Isabella's mouth hung open. "Do we not have a maid here?" she asked in astonishment.

Heathcliff cracked a nasty smile at her. "We do now."

It took a moment for this to sink in, and when it did, Isabella was scandalised. "You mean to have me work like a servant? As though I were your – your scullery-maid, as opposed to your wife?"

Heathcliff turned on her with a growl in the back of his throat. "I _was_ a servant, woman," he spat. "For many long years, I worked from dawn till dusk, 'like a servant', as you say. I'll not have a wife who doesn't know work, as I have known it."

Isabella could not think of what to say, but stayed her objections, remembering Martha's wise advice concerning obedience to her husband. "I have only those clothes I brought from the Grange," she commented at last. "They are none of them suited for labouring as you ask of me."

"Then you shan't have further need of them," he replied curtly. "I understand you have some skill with a needle: I daresay you shall have little trouble making yourself clothes for work. Unless you fancy dirtying that?" he added, gesturing contemptuously to the fine gown she wore.

Isabella hung her head. She had forgotten, in her recent meetings with him, the hardness of Heathcliff's earlier life, the harsh circumstances of servitude that had marked his young life, and she felt very foolish, now, to have done so for a moment; for it was clear they had affected him deeply, to the very depths of his soul.

And yet, under all that, the nagging, jealous question that raged through her head…

"And were Cathy in my position, would you expect such service from her?" she spat bitterly.

She knew, as soon as she had spoken, that she had said the wrong thing. Heathcliff's eyes darkened until they appeared quite black, and his face twisted into a hateful scowl. He stepped towards her threateningly, and she felt herself cringe away from his intimidating advance.

"Don't you say her name," he snarled into her face. "Don't you say her name."

She shrank back, and lowered her gaze as submissively as she could, though her pulse pounded through her and her mind flooded itself with jealous rage. _Will it ever be thus? _she thought to herself in an agony of despair._ Will it always be Cathy before me?_

"Very well," she managed at last. "I shall set to work, then. But…" she faltered, now at a loss. "But I still have nothing to wear for such tasks. Must I truly work in this?" Her dress was one of her favourites, a simple but beautiful creation of yellow silk, and she could only think with horror of what this pauper's work might do to it. She raised her eyes to his imploringly.

"Oh, not to worry," he smirked. "Nellie left here rather sudden, I understand – I daresay she'll have left something suitable for you."

Despite herself, she bristled. "You mean to say I shall be wearing a – a _servant's hand-me-downs_!?"

His grin only grew wider. _He's laughing at me! _Isabella realised. _This devil of a man is laughing at me for my pride!_

Then he reached forward, took hold of her wrist, and pulled her to her feet. His strength was overpowering: she could not have resisted him, even had she tried. And, too, she knew better than to try. She stood stock still, frozen in place by her own mute compliance to his will, as his nimble fingers dropped to her waist, and wrenched free the pins that held her gown in place.

He had been gentler than this on the night their marriage was made complete; now, his hands pulled roughly at her dress, ripping the laces open and sliding beneath the gown, to pull it away from her. The delicate silk fell idly to the floor, disregarded by them both, and Isabella felt herself peculiarly vulnerable and exposed. He had seen her naked, and yet somehow this was worse: to stand before him in only her petticoat and stays, trying her hardest to prepare for the gross indignity that must befall her now.

It was not supposed to be like this. To be vulnerable and half-dressed before your husband was supposed to be a beautiful experience, a feeling of womanly weakness that ached for a man's strong, protective embrace. As it was, she only felt ashamed of her meekness.

Although in truth, she had to admit that she had never seen him handsomer before than when he looked upon her now, the mirth in his expression seeming somehow warmer than it had when he had mocked her. She could not think how to respond to him: ambivalence was an emotion she could scarcely comprehend, less still express, and yet so many thoughts flew through her head now that she hardly knew what she was thinking at all.

One thought stood out, though, and it shocked her: _Will I be beautiful to him in a humble dress? Or will it shame me in his eyes, as it shames me in mine?_ She could only hope that he saw things differently than society did, that her chances of winning his love would not be ruined by his plans to ruin her pride and degrade her station.

Heathcliff said nothing as he left the room; the door slammed behind him, and Isabella was left to shiver and blush, alone by the bed. She picked up her fallen dress, cradling it to her breast as one might hold a close friend; then cast it onto the bed. If she was to be forced to humble herself, at least she would not be so pitiful as to cling hopelessly to the vestiges of her high station and pride. She would accept her fate graciously at her husband's hand, for what choice was there?

When Heathcliff returned, he held a small bundle under his arms, which he tossed unceremoniously toward her, without warning. Isabella had been a fond player of catching games in her youth, and snatched it easily from the air. His mouth twitched upwards at that for a moment, before returning to the mocking scowl he had worn when entering the room.

She unfurled the bundle, which consisted of a worn brown dress and an apron that she presumed had been white, long ago. She knew better now than to complain or protest, and instead slipped on the dress without a word.

Oh, how she would miss her fine silks! The old servant's dress was comfortable enough, and warm to be sure, but she had never before appreciated the soft silk and fine cotton of her usual gowns as their sleeves gently caressed the skin of her forearms, the smell of quality that surrounded each of them, and most of all, the pride in her station that the simple act of dressing had aroused in her. Putting on this - this _thing_, this coarse creation that offered no reassurance to her pride, nor subtle sensation to her skin, made her feel herself rather ungrateful for the exalted position she had held up to now. Worse, she felt a rather disquieting suspicion that, if she felt so reduced by a mere change of clothes, her former pride in herself had perhaps been based more upon her station and her clothes than on any fine quality in herself.

Was there something more than hardness in Heathcliff that motivated him to so assault her pride? _Could it be,_ she thought with sudden horror, _that he genuinely finds ladies of class to be vain and superficial?_ She had assumed it was simple jealousy that drove his hatred of her, but if her pride were indeed based on such trivial things, was he – her mind tried to shirk the thought but she held on to it, in hopes of gaining some understanding that she might never grasp again – was he trying to rectify a genuine flaw in her?

Pride was truly an insidious thing. Could she truly say, now, that her life and person were worth any more than the least of the maids at Thrushcross Grange? And if it were not… She found, to her mounting shock, that her own pride of minutes ago was now something revolting, the sin that all preachers railed against, and that damned more supposed Christians to hell than all other vices combined.

Oh, let him be disgusted by her vanity! For if he was, then it meant these acts of malice stemmed from some hope of improving her, which meant that he truly intended to try to love her.

If he only despised her, and acted now simply from spite, then her suit was all but hopeless. But if there was something in her that he had once despised (and that dirty pride, she realised with sudden inspiration, she had seen more and more in Cathy since her brother had married her), and if she would resign such a thing to gain his love, then perhaps there was a chance of her triumph.

She was resolved, now. If it took everything she had, she would humble herself until he looked upon Cathy and felt nothing there but revulsion, and nothing but admiration when he looked upon her. Let society shun her, let her brother recoil – she would win the heart of this man!


	8. Chapter 8- A Stone In The Devil's Garden

**Note to readers: This chapter contains some sexual content. Reader discretion is advised.**

Heathcliff had offered to help her with her apron. It was as though he thought her so vain as to have had no experience with one!

At that she had finally snapped, assuring him in no uncertain terms that she was quite familiar with how to dress for work, even if she had no experience of the work he was setting her to.

He had smirked no end when the apron strings turned out to be knotted tightly together, so that try as she might she could make no headway untying it, and nor could she put it on without doing so; and so at last she had had to hand the garment back meekly, and ask in subdued tones for his aid with the knot. His more practised fingers had made impressively short work of the knot, then with a scornful glare he had beckoned her forward, spun her round and tied it on her before she could protest her ability to do it herself.

Thus attired, she followed Heathcliff mutely downstairs. Nellie, to whom presumably this dress had last belonged, was a good deal taller than was Isabella, and so she had had to raise her skirt with both hands to keep from tripping on the three inches of spare fabric that trailed on the floor around her, already gathering dirt and dust from the bare stone floor.

...

The kitchen was empty when they walked in: Hareton, Heathcliff explained, was accustomed to taking the dogs out on the moors at every opportunity so as to avoid his father; and Hindley himself was undoubtedly asleep, or at least in a drunken stupor that was close enough to be considered such.

"And Joseph?" she asked.

"Pious old bastard'll be at church, like as not," sneered Heathcliff. "Praying where God can see him: I pity God that He should have to look upon a rancorous shrivelled old face like that, day in, day out."

She giggled, despite herself. Heathcliff, meanwhile, settled himself grandly upon one of the kitchen chairs, his arms astride the chair arms, his head up proudly and his legs wide apart, looking for all the world as though he owned the place.

"Well," he said imperiously. "Get on with it, woman."

She sobered immediately, the laughter stopped in her throat as suddenly as though she had choked. She set to work, lowering herself to her hands and knees to start cleaning the floor, and found immediately that Heathcliff had not been wrong about the effect of Hindley on the room. The floor about the table was strewn with stale beer and crumbs dropped by the master of the house, and this was not the worst of it, for the floor by the hearth had not been swept, and soot had spilled out of the fireplace – a fact she became aware of only after she had spilled water on it, turning it to a thick black pool and rendering the resulting mess quite impossible to sweep up. Within half an hour of work, her arms were aching, her apron was stained grey with filth, and the dress which had earlier seemed warm was now stiflingly hot, bringing her out in an unaccustomed sweat.

Heathcliff, for his part, offered no help at all. He sat in his chair, watching her, giving not a word of encouragement; no, not so much as lifting a finger, the fact of which irked her to distraction. At first, her anger gave more power to her arms, driving her to greater heights of furious exertion, but once she felt spilled water soaking through to her knees, she could hold back her frustration no longer.

Ever mindful of Martha's injunction regarding obedience, she refrained most carefully from condemning his silent refusal to help, but elected instead to question him as meekly as possible.

Still on her knees, in front of his chair, she closed her eyes, and tightened her mouth for a moment to hold back the bitterness she felt. "I must ask one thing of you, Heathcliff," she said, as gently as she could, though she fancied her pain showed in her voice a little more than she had intended. "Have you put me to this so as to mortify my pride, and to teach me some virtuous humility; or is this scheme of yours intended only to hurt me in some humiliating act of vengeance?"

She at last opened her eyes, and then opened them still wider. His posture had not changed, and she could see, directly at the level of her eyes, the buckskin of his breeches stretching at the sign of his desire. Another suggestion thus presented itself immediately to her, and raising her eyes to his face, she saw a look in his eye that confirmed it for her. She lowered her gaze immediately, closing her eyes once again in shock.

"…Or is it, perhaps, that you take some delight in seeing me thus reduced, and seek to have me do this simply for your liking?" she finally breathed.

He made no reply at first, until, compelled by some dark curiosity, she returned her gaze to his face. A malicious glee showed in the upward tilt of his lips, a cruel desire burning like black fire in his eyes.

"To all three, woman," he replied with a warmth in her voice that Isabella found at once arresting and terrifying, "I reply: yes."

Isabella collected herself. Her face did not move, but behind her expression, she pondered as fast as she could. What would smiling, cheerful Martha have told her to do now? More importantly, how could she use this precious piece of knowledge to her own best advantage?

Of course…

Dipping her head down once more, in a gesture as servile as she could bring herself to produce while her pride was yet strong, she spoke as meekly as she could, flavouring her voice with a shyness that she suspected he might now find appealing. "Then must I expect you will require me to perform the duties of a wife for you this evening, as well as those of a maid?"

_Now I shall see,_ she thought. _If I have judged his character rightly, he shall want me, but shall want more to see me shocked, or hurt, or broken. And if I am right, then I have a key to his heart right here on my knees…_

Heathcliff bent forward, his face threateningly close to hers. "No," he replied shortly. "I shall require the duties of a _whore_."

Her mouth opened, her eyes blinked in what she hoped was an honest expression of astonished timidity. And behind it all, her mind whirled.

_I have you now, Heathcliff, _she thought delightedly. _It may take me time, it may hurt, it may cost me the very dregs of my pride, but I have you, heart and soul. You're not Cathy's any more: you're mine._

_I win._

...

The door slammed shut behind them: Heathcliff, it seemed, intended to present himself as imposingly as he could, and Isabella played her part in earnest, giving every sign of nervous, meek womanhood.

Perhaps Cathy's wilder spirit had appealed to him, but she knew she could not seek to challenge her in a contest of wildness: Isabella had neither the upbringing, nor the experience, of the wild girl her family had taken in years ago. Rather, she must seek to win Heathcliff's heart through presenting quite a different façade: and this one, it seemed, had as much appeal to Heathcliff as did any wildness, though he professed violently to look with scorn upon any meek spirit.

She would challenge Cathy where she could not fight back, for Cathy would never be meek. And Heathcliff would learn to desire meekness, and humility, and suffering, until Cathy would never satisfy him, and only Isabella would do for him; and then –

Then Cathy would be naught but a memory, like the nameless girl that Martha's husband had forgotten. And, just perhaps, once that had happened… Isabella might laugh in her face.

But that would be some time in coming, no doubt. And she was reminded, as Heathcliff turned to run his eye over her figure, that there was no laughing just now…


	9. Chapter 9 - Perspective, Part I

**Note to readers: This chapter contains graphic sexual content, minimum 'M' rated chapter. Reader discretion is advised.**

Silent the man before her, a fire burning in those black eyes, a cruel sneer upon his full, perfect lips.

His body was lean and strong from his days of hard work, his gentleman's clothes draped themselves beautifully across his frame. Looking upon him, she felt all the more keenly how plain she must appear before him now.

Why, she had to wonder, did she find him quite so handsome in his worst moments? Why did the fire in his eyes, that should have wrought in her nothing but terror of the flame, instead glimmer like marsh-lights, beckoning her ever on? Why were those lips so much more enticing to her when they turned up mockingly at her pain and disgrace?

…

Silent the girl before him, trembling just visibly in the filthy ensemble he had forced upon her. Those damned Linton eyes looked into his, and everything in him raged for her pain; for him to turn those blue eyes black; or better still, to see those blushing cheeks wet with her tears.

Was it only vengeance, that stirred these feelings in him? He had to consider, now, that perhaps he felt something more than mere hatred for the girl. In the kitchen, he had been shocked, himself, to discover the true nature of his feelings for her: perhaps not so shocked as she, to judge from her expression, but astonished nonetheless.

And now, it seemed, she would look him in the eye, as though she wanted him to see what he had done to her. And he did, and he saw, and he liked it.

…

His eyes bored into hers. Did he desire her? Isabella had never felt so unattractive; and yet, she knew, this was how she could best appeal to him. If she could not quite comprehend how he could find her appallingly humble appearance so curiously appealing…

Well, that was of no consequence, for she knew that he _did_, and that was all that mattered. She had a way to his heart, she knew, and she would not give that up. However much it hurt her, or shamed her, or humiliated her, then so much sweeter would be her victory over that undeserving rival of hers.

She permitted herself a small smile, then, as she imagined their roles reversed for a moment. Were she, Isabella, the object of Heathcliff's affection, would Cathy do as Isabella was doing now? Would she humble herself, break her own pride on Heathcliff's hateful cruelty like bones broken on the rocks of Penistone Crags?

She could not decide which was the more delicious thought: the spitefully cruel image in her mind of proud, wild Cathy, in her own awful position, forced into this state of ignominy and stained with the filth of her own labour; or the triumphant knowledge that Cathy simply would not do it.

Only Isabella would have the strength to see this through, she was quite sure of that.

And only Isabella would have his heart, come the end…

…

The girl was smiling at him, her lips mirroring his in a crooked reflection of his pleasure in her downfall. Was she laughing at herself? Was she pleased by his reaction to her?

Could it be that she, herself, liked what he had done to her? He recalled her words from downstairs, and, as any experienced trickster does, sought to read between the lines, to find an understanding of her:

"_Have you put me to this so as to mortify my pride, and to teach me some virtuous humility?"_

Could it truly be, that this weak, deluded girl would frame his abuse and degradation of her as some kind-hearted attempt at redemption from her flaws? He could not comprehend such a thing; therefore, he thought instead of what thoughts she unknowingly revealed.

He had rarely read women, having had little need to trick them over the years (for 'twas ever the men who had both power and money at stake), and having been able to read Cathy's thoughts, as she had read his, throughout their loving time together. But he was sure the same rules would apply. And once he knew her, as well as he knew himself, or at least as well as he knew Joseph, or Nellie, or that bastard Hindley, then he could hurt her all the more…

_Rule One: They always think that you think the same way they do._

To mortify her pride, and so teach her virtuous humility… If she thought he desired to do such a thing to her, the obvious implication was that she thought to correct him through her behaviour as she assumed he meant to do to her. The thought would not have occurred to her else.

And if Isabella thought herself able to fool him thus… Did she think she could make him love her? Trick his heart into placing some gentle affection on her, by some womanly scheme?

He had never smiled as cruelly as he did now, not even when he cursed Hindley, and discovered the terrible, fatal damage he had successfully wrought.

Let her think it? Or break her hope to her face, and watch the tears fall?

Both ideas had a terrible appeal…

…

Isabella stepped towards him, gingerly; not wanting to appear too eager, but hoping to entice him to action.

Nervous as she was, she remembered how Heathcliff had felt to her when they had consummated their marriage in a violent embrace and a stream of tears, and she found herself filled with a wonderful sense of desire. She wanted his hands to touch her skin, wanted him inside her, wanted to know his pleasure as he would summon forth her own. She had no idea how she might go about making love in the manner of a harlot, as he had intimated, but she was resolved that he should be utterly and perfectly fulfilled by her.

After what seemed an age, she came before him, her body almost touching his, and closed her eyes, reaching herself towards his lips for a kiss that would unlock every passion.

A kiss that never came.

Isabella opened her eyes. Heathcliff had stepped back, not far; but enough to put himself just out of reach of her mouth. It was unfair: her lips were burning, her tongue ached to taste him; he was depriving her most awfully…

Those full lips parted for the first time since they had entered the room, and his voice was warm and sweet as honey drops on a summer's day, though his words were so cold as to chill her to the bone.

"Oh no, love, no. Whores don't do _that_."

She felt her traitorous cheeks burn with yet another tell-tale blush, and dropped her gaze to his boots. It was the wrong question to ask, she could tell: a part of her was screaming at her not to give him the satisfaction…

"What is it, then, that whores do?" she asked, shouting down her dignity and caution combined. She could not look up, now, however much she wanted to; she feared what she might see in her husband's eyes.

And yet, even gazing fixedly at the floor, she could feel his smirk growing wider at her embarrassed discomfort. "Well, for a start, my love," he began, his tone mocking and harsh, "they don't spend their time on their feet. Get on the floor."

She did look up at that. "The floor? But there is a bed, just there!" she protested involuntarily.

"But you shall not lie in it," retorted her beautiful tormentor. "You shall take to your knees, just as you did when you worked downstairs."

…

Why? Why did he affect her so? When she had seen him at Thrushcross Grange, he had been handsome, in every manner a gentleman, and quite the type of charming, well-presented rogue to pique her interest, and more besides if she would be honest with herself.

But now he was cruel, and delighted in her suffering… So why was he so much more attractive to her now? To think of the charming, well-bred gentleman who sat at Thrushcross Grange, sipping tea and making scandalous remarks…

Well, to be sure, he was the same man, and quite as handsome then as he was now. But if she had the choice of the demanding, tyrannical fiend who now controlled her so callously, and the polite, if impertinent, gentleman of only a few weeks ago… Would she really choose the latter?

…

She blinked for a moment, disoriented. She had scarcely been conscious of obeying Heathcliff's command, but she found herself on her knees, her damp dress pressing against them in a reminder of her lowly position, and both her dress and apron trapped beneath her legs. She wondered idly how Heathcliff expected to take advantage of her body in such a position, when her own garments covered everything of her that was private.

Her eyes were once more at the level of his waist, and she watched his clever hands with mounting exhilaration as they opened his breeches, exposing himself to her. She felt oddly threatened by his close proximity to her face; it seemed somehow darker, more dangerous, to see him so close, than it had been to take him inside her.

Still she did not understand, naïve as she was, as she knew herself to be…

And then he moved forward, just enough to touch himself to her lips. Realisation came as a shock, and she recoiled in astonished horror. She had never dreamed that such a thing would be asked of her: surely, no lady would dream of lowering herself to such a level!

And as her gaze moved down, she saw what he saw: she was no lady – could no longer be a lady – for fine ladies were what he despised. She had prepared herself for humiliation, she sternly reminded herself, and were Cathy in her place –

The thought drove her to a fit of jealousy; however degrading the act, this was hers to perform, and the realisation that she would envy any other, were they in her position, inspired her to move forward and accept him, slowly, into her mouth.

She cringed silently at first, knowing how appalling she would find the sight, if only she were to see herself now; but as her lips parted across him, and she felt, through her tongue, the first shivers of desire run through him, she found herself relaxing. He tasted like ice, if ice could ever be so warm; and yet at the same time like some strange and exotic fruit that only she would ever experience: sweet, and hot, and intoxicating. He was hard, and yet soft at the same time: her lips moved across him, and as his skin moved with her, the tremors of pleasure ran through him once more.

She felt herself sink into a blissful trance, lost in the sensations that filled her mouth; though all the while, one small part of her mind looked, and saw, and directed her to comport herself just as she felt Heathcliff must want. _Not too fast,_ murmured her innermost thoughts, _he wants your reluctance as much as he wants your mouth, so no quick or eager movements. Let him love the control, let him think himself to be so powerful as to force this pleasure from you…_

Another part of her cringed still, the remnants of her pride appalled by her willing debasement of herself. While her body trembled with pleasure at the new feelings within her, and her calculating mind focused still on winning his affections, the rest of her conspired to twist her face in mortified shame, as Heathcliff's moans grew ever louder and harsher with cruel, lustful violence in his words.

The taste in her mouth changed, salty and sweet and wet all at once, and she squirmed as she felt him flow across her tongue, and spill into her mouth.

He pulled himself free, slowly, sliding across her tongue and slipping past her lips. Without thinking about it, in a lustful reflex, she moved forward in hopes of taking him back inside her mouth, his moans from far above her head driving her to a height of uncontrolled passion that destroyed all self-control.

But before she could open her eyes to find him, so as to take him back in, Heathcliff did the unthinkable. His moans reaching a scream of desperate passion, he at last cried out in a gasp of licentious triumph – and she felt him erupt, hot and wet and thick, across her cheek.


	10. Chapter 10 - Perspective, Part II

**Note to readers: This chapter contains graphic sexual content, minimum 'M' rated chapter. Reader discretion is advised.**

Time slowed to a crawl; her mouth hung open in shock and dismay, and she pressed her eyes closed, as though to shut out this awful desecration.

To dress her in servant's apparel was embarrassing, to force her to work as a maid in the household degrading, and to demand of her such service as would confound any lady of quality was worse still… but this? She dared not open her eyes, could not bear to look on the man who had so humiliated her.

Did she still love him, or was the fire that burned her body with yearning now borne, instead, of hate? The turmoil in her mind was disorienting, and the thought occurred to her that she might find her answer the moment she looked upon him once more. And yet still her eyes remained closed, even as her breath quickened: she did not think she was yet ready for that question to be answered…

She heard his footsteps as he moved past her, and for one terrible moment thought he was about to leave, to walk out and abandon her where she knelt in mortified disgrace.

But she was wrong: his hand rested upon her shoulder, his skin warm against her dress. It was strange, how reassuring it was to feel him there; it felt almost like finding a friend while lost and alone.

"Open your eyes," Heathcliff breathed in her ear, close enough for her to feel his breath tantalisingly against her face and neck. "Open them."

Isabella tensed, bracing herself; she felt sure, somehow, that the return of her vision would be an assault upon her senses: in truth, she felt near to fainting. She could feel him on her shoulder through her dress; she could smell the rose water he used for cologne; she could hear his voice in her ears; and could taste him still in her mouth: to open her eyes, and so perceive him through all her senses, she feared, might yet bring her out in a fever.

With an effort that seemed to take all her strength, she eased open her eyes at last, and her breath caught in her throat. "No…."

The devilish blackguard had planned this, there was no doubt in her mind. He had been standing between her and the full-length dressing mirror, and now that he had moved behind her, she was treated to the appalling sight of herself, Heathcliff's hand upon her shoulder, his face far too handsome for the malevolent smile that twisted his lips as he examined her image in the glass.

She scarcely recognised herself. The girl in the mirror was a wretch, her cheeks burning red with humiliation, the blush so strong as to shine through the shameful stuff that still caressed her left cheek. Her clothes were stained with sweat, and dirt, and far worse, and tears welled up in her eyes, as though by her own anguish, she might wash away the stain of Heathcliff's assault.

Heathcliff's hand was no longer at her shoulder. Instead, he slid it down across her body, gliding over her breast and along her corset. Her eyes widened as he continued inexorably downwards, finally slipping through the concealed openings in her dress, beneath her petticoat, to touch the tender skin of her legs.

She could see it all in the mirror, even as she felt him on her, and it was as though the two women were entirely divorced, one from the other: the Isabella that knelt, weeping with shame at her own unrelenting desire for him and doing everything she could to maintain some semblance of decency as Heathcliff's trickster's hand began to caress her, seemed a thing apart from the girl in the mirror, who gasped in anguished rapture and spread her thighs apart, the skirt of her dress flowing across the floor with the movement of her legs, as she opened herself to the invasion of her gypsy husband's diabolical touch.

His smile widened, as he gazed at her face in the mirror.

For her part, Isabella now knew, or could easily guess, what he planned to inflict upon her: she merely had to imagine the worst thing she could. And she could imagine little worse, now, than the awful humiliation of his forcing her pleasure from her, bringing her to the greatest heights of ecstasy even as she shrank from the terrible image the mirror presented to her.

And he would make her watch herself, at that.

Isabella began to wonder whether she had taken on too great a burden for herself, in forswearing her pride for the sake of this man's love. She had expected mortification, and pain, and many other things besides, but she had never contemplated the possibility of being forced to enjoy it all…

The thought came to her, unbidden and terrifying: What if she did? What if, as a result of his treatment of her, she found herself desiring the very things that cut so cruelly at her sense of self? Would the loss of her pride become, not a noble sacrifice in the name of love, but rather some depraved pleasure that she herself invited?

Tears fell across her face once more, for she could feel his nimble fingers exploring her, feeling her desire as she had witnessed his, and she could all too readily imagine her transformation at his hands as the bewitching sensations began to dance through her body, setting her skin aflame with anticipation, and filling her mind with shame and fear.

"No," she gasped, as his fingers caressed her still more deeply, "No, Heathcliff, I mustn't – please –"

He did not answer her in words, but bent his mouth to her neck from behind, and his lips brushed her nape, pushing aside her hair the better to taste her. The sensation was at once beautiful and unbearable; and worse, it brought her attention upward, forcing her to become still more conscious of the taint he had left upon her cheek, which now ran down her face and fell, glistening like pearls, upon her gown.

…

The girl in the mirror was gasping, her hands held fast against her apron, pressing against Heathcliff's unseen hand and welcoming his touch, as his searching fingers sought within her for the key to her ruin.

Even as Isabella protested, in the name of her innocence and purity, for him to stop, the girl within the glass would brook no such freedom; and she held his hand fast in place so as to deny the very possibility, all in the name of the filthy delights he was promising her.

…

Isabella could scarce contain herself: Heathcliff's lips had parted against her skin, and his tongue travelled lazily across the back of her neck, trailing down to the very top of her dress, and then back up, leaving kisses that burned like fire, sending tantalising shivers down her spine. He looked over her shoulder, and his expression made clear his malicious delight at her dreadful situation. He could see, and feel, her desperate need for him, and he responded with a passion she recognised from their honeymoon, when he had first discovered the joy of her pain.

His eyes were black once more, and tiny lights sparkled in the blackness like stars in the night sky, each one an inferno of illicit, sinful pleasures. His lips were wet from the kisses he had given her, and they turned up in a sneer as he manipulated her body: his fingers wet with her lust; her mind racing with pleasure and disgust until the two thoughts merged into one awful sensation.

She was a puppet, dangling helplessly on the strings he pulled; she could no more resist his effect on her than a single wildflower on the moors might hold back the coming of winter. Her hands had not moved from his: she could not bear to let him stop. The dreadful thought occurred to her that he might plan such a thing, the better to torture her; and she pressed her hands against him all the tighter, to keep him from cruelly denying her.

Even though she would fight against the intoxicating waves of hot, sweet sensation with all her will (for the last remnants of her dignity demanded nothing less) the thought that she might win this struggle, and so be denied the release she craved so violently, was one that suddenly appalled her.

She needed to lose to him. She needed him to force her to it, to wrench her pleasure from her, to violently overcome her resistance: she could not live with herself any other way.

And surely it would please him to win…?

…

Heathcliff's eyes glittered; and behind them, his mind relaxed. He knew how best to hurt her, for now; she would feel herself ruined at his touch, both her body and mind usurped by his rule when she lost herself in rapture on the cold, hard floor. He had no need of devising further torments yet: there would be plenty of time for that later.

And indeed, there were so many further torments he could enact upon her, none of which she might escape; for her own foolish love for him held her prisoner here, just as his for Cathy continued to inescapably damn his soul.

The thought of Cathy sparked new life into him: anger at Isabella for not being Cathy; fury at Edgar for taking Cathy away from him; and most of all (though he would never admit of it) an overpowering rage at Cathy herself for so forsaking him. His ire only fuelled his need to devastate the girl who knelt before him, and he brought his left hand across to run his nails across her spine, so firm and gentle as to make his all-too-willing victim gasp, and then begin, first to moan, and then to wail, with an unrestrained and horrified exaltation.

…

It was no longer a contest: Isabella's will had been broken long before Heathcliff's fingernails began to tease and torture her so deliciously. She no longer even tried to fight the onrushing sensations Heathcliff was bringing forth in her; rather, she welcomed his every assault upon her senses, and was just conscious that within her anguished wails were interspersed broken fragments of pleading, begging him at one moment to stop, and then at the very next, screaming for him to finish her.

The wanton, dirty girl in the mirror no longer seemed a remote dream, held at a safe distance from her own self: the image she saw in the glass, and the truth of her excruciating downfall, were coming together, too close to bear. She was the girl in the glass, and the girl was she.

How awful it was to see herself as she had become: lowly, filthy, debased and tortured, and yet begging her devil of a husband for her continued suffering! She despised the image she was being forced to witness, even as her body craved the hand that still despoiled her, and its wicked caress.

And every time her mind rebelled, wishing to reclaim her precious dignity, her eyes met his in the reflected surface that continued to shame her: and the glittering of his eyes, and the life in his expression, overwhelmed all such thoughts as she considered how mighty a change had been wrought in her husband.

How petty and small a need seemed her pride, in comparison with Heathcliff's cruel affections! What love could dignity attain? and what could be worth more than love?

And so she let her pride go, throwing restraint to the winds that howled across the moors, as Heathcliff's fingers coaxed forth her ruin, opening her up like a rosebud in summer, obliterating her every conscious thought and reducing her artfully to a breathless wreck.

Her eyes closed, the better to focus on every wondrous sensation: his breath and nails upon her neck; his hand within her; even the warm, wet caress that still slid across her cheek and devastated her image, for even that now seemed a rare and exotic pleasure, even as she railed still at the act that had so sullied her.

In the darkness behind her eyes, how she looked no longer mattered: the disgusting image of the girl in the mirror was gone, and Isabella could be simply a wife, enjoying the carnal pleasures of matrimony with her lawful husband, heedless of prideful concerns and abandoning herself to him.

But Heathcliff would not have her so easily blinded to the atrociousness of her true fate: his hand stopped within her, bringing a whimper of frustration from his wife. "Open your eyes, Isabella," his voice came sneering into her trembling ear, "Open them, for you shall have nothing more from me until you see yourself…"

Her eyes snapped open, almost without thought; and the reflection within the glass brought everything crashing back, even as Heathcliff moved again within her, firmer and faster, until she cried out once again.

Isabella cried, the girl in the mirror howled, Isabella was moaning and her reflection was gasping: everything about her blurred, and was it her tears or her passion that made her vision swim, until she could not distinguish one from the other? The two became one, Heathcliff's touch unlocked her and Isabella looked out from inside the glass at herself: she was the wanton, debauched reflection, she was the helpless, humiliated woman; she was everything and nothing; she was wailing and her tears reached the stain on her cheek just as Heathcliff finished her, and nothing would be the same ever again, never…

…

Heathcliff pulled his hand from her, lingering at her legs and her breast as he moved. Isabella knelt, broken and sobbing, on the floor, her hands still pressed against her front. He could not tell, for all his guile and talents, whether she sobbed for joy or anguish, and found to his horror that he almost hoped it was the former.

He bent forward, and planted a kiss upon her bare cheek, where her tears ran in a clear path across her face. They were sweet, and salty, and he found their taste better by far than he had even imagined.

He had thought only to taste those tears, but her skin was as soft as her eyes, and it was that that drew him forward again, to kiss her more sweetly, first upon her cheek again, and then, gently, upon the lips that had so yearned for him that first night they had spent together. It was too loving, he was not hurting her as he knew he should desire; and yet somehow, there was no pain caused in his heart by this display of affection, this gesture of comfort.

There would be time for her pain later. This kiss, this ritual, this warmth…

It would do, for now.

…

Isabella's hands were still clasped against her apron, though her petticoat was soaked with herself and she could feel it against her legs, a depraved sensation that at once repelled and excited her. She was spent, gasping and weeping, and despite the afterglow that warmed her through, she had never felt quite so alone as she did now: knelt on the cold stones in a cast-off dress that now bore shameful marks that she would never dare show to anyone; with Heathcliff so remote and distant now as his hand withdrew from her…

Her cheek burned. Not the left cheek, which he had sullied with his filth; but rather her right. The sensation deepened, and she finally distinguished his lips, pressed gently against her.

Where he had broken her, she felt the shards of her soul fly together once more: his kiss was healing her, renewing her: she was Isabella once more, though not the proud, jealous girl she had once been. Her pride was shattered, his kiss did nothing for that, but as his lips moved to her mouth and she felt his hand in her hair, drawing her to him…

She was reborn.


	11. Chapter 11 - Of Friends And Fortunes

Isabella's hand shook only a little as she wrote, the candlelight flickering in the darkness as the first light of dawn began to creep in through the dirty windows.

_To Martha, of the Stansfield Arms,_

_From Isabella __Heathcliff, of __Wuthering Heights,_

_I hope this letter finds you in good health (and also in strictest confidence – for Heaven forfend any other should look upon these words but you and I!)._

_I do not know for sure how long it has been since I and my companion stayed at your inn; or rather, the calendar and my diary both tell me it has been but a day, but I have suffered so much, I cannot believe it has been less than years since I enjoyed the pleasure of your company, and received gratefully your wisdom concerning the virtues of obedience to my husband._

_I hope I will not offend you if I speak plainly, with regard to the effects of this scheme, though my words may be shocking to you. I can only apologise for my forthcoming candour, but if there is any defence I can afford, it is that there is none other in this world I can trust to tell of this matter; and though I might always pray to the Almighty Lord for his aid, I am not quite sure I am yet prepared to turn over such revelations to a pure and virtuous God._

Isabella wrote, and wrote on, hunkering over the page as the dawn grew brighter, for fear any other soul might enter the kitchen and witness, whether by accident or design, the scandalous words she penned.

_And then, when he had so disgraced me, and reduced me to such a state of confusion I knew not whether I wept for pain or relief, he kissed me, as though his heart had melted for just a moment. Martha, I fancied I saw love in his eyes for a moment! But oh, such grace is bitter indeed when it flashes but briefly, and is gone once more; and that is the fate that befell my soul, for his eyes turned dark once more as our lips parted from each other, and all tenderness seemed lost as he once more took to commanding me._

_The tasks of the evening were still to be done, and oh! 'twas cruel to see the malevolence in his eye as he ordered me downstairs once more to wash the plates, not permitting me the chance to even change my sullied clothes – oh Martha! The thought that at any moment I might be seen in my shame – that the servant, or the boy, or even the master of the house, might walk in and perceive me any moment – it was more than I could bear._

_Worse still, I feel quite sure that I was heard, for I saw both the servant and the master, later that day, and mayhap it is merely a fancy, but I was sure that both avoided my eyes – what humiliation if they knew ought of what transpired in my husband's room!_

_Have I cause, Martha, to be aggrieved? I do not know how to feel towards him now: he has forced me to take some wicked pleasure in my own debasement; and with his seed upon my face!_

Her hand slipped upon the last word, the pen stabbing clear through the writing paper. She considered, for a moment, whether she must discard the page into the fire, and begin once more; but then decided her horror had been quite properly expressed, and wrote on.

_And yet, at the same time, I cannot help but think (and I fear, therefore, that I may be depraved!) that if this is to be my life, then it is only right I should take pleasure in it._

_But the most painful thing is that I have not yet won, for last night I was banished to a spare room to sleep, and through the walls I heard him call her name, over and over, in his sleep! I burn to defeat my rival, and yet I fear my search for victory will destroy me. Is it worth winning his love and taking him from her, as I still long to do, if at the end, there is nothing left of me?_

_Oh Martha, you are wise, and have seen much of the world, and I beg you not to overlook my plea but rather to bestow upon me your advice: tell me, Martha, what should I do? Have many wives complained as bitterly as I; and what have you counselled them, in your time?_

_I pray you shall reply in all haste, for I cannot bear another moment without your guidance._

_Isabella._

She was aware, from the many books she had read detailing stories of love, that anyone pressed to write a letter in a desperate attempt to win the love of a man, would weep until their tears fell upon the page, and Isabella was slightly disappointed that her eyes were dry this morning. Would a better effect be achieved, she wondered, if she were to wet her fingers in the sink and create drops upon the letter? Would Martha pay any attention to her plea if the paper was so thoroughly dry?

She finally decided against it – Martha was sharp, she felt, and would know tears from water anyway – and was just folding the letter when a figure came creeping into the kitchen.

Had she looked up but a second later, and thus missed his entry to the room, she might have screamed; for he had made not a sound coming in, and her nerves were already quite strained enough. But it seemed her presence frightened him more than his did her, for the boy froze on the spot when he perceived her gaze.

"Hareton!" hissed Isabella. "Hareton, how'd you like to earn yourself a shilling?"

This generous offer did not have the effect she had hoped: the boy stayed where he was, looking warily at her through wide, round eyes. "Joseph said he heard you wail like some banshee yesterday, miss," he commented, "and he warned me not to come too near you today, for fear you might have been possessed, like."

Isabella fought against her blush, but it was a losing battle – her cheeks burned as hot as the fire she had lit in the hearth. "Joseph says a lot of things, young man, as I'm sure you know – and not a one among them is kind or generous to anyone's character. That man would accuse the bishop himself of impiety, if he thought anyone might believe him. Now, do you want to earn a shilling or not?"

The boy seemed somewhat mollified at that, but his eyes continued to stare guardedly into her own. "What do I have to do?" he finally asked.

"Just take a letter for me, find someone to take it to the Stansfield Arms, outside Bradford, and be sure neither you nor they read the contents."

The boy's eyes lit up then. "Is it a secret?" he asked excitedly. "Is it some terrible thing that could get you into trouble if you was caught?"

"Of course not," snapped Isabella, though her blush spread further down across her neck, and she feared the small boy would see through her denial.

"Oh," replied he, sounding quite disappointed. "That's a shame, it would have been nice to be part of a secret." His eyes glittered malevolently, and for a moment she was reminded of the sparks that danced in Heathcliff's eyes when he plotted her own downfall. "Joseph don't like secrets, and I crave 'em for that reason alone."

Isabella, it seemed, had misjudged the boy again. "Oh, very well," she at last whispered. "It _is_ a secret, I will tell you that, but not one as would get anyone in trouble, save yourself if you open the letter."

"Be damned to a shilling then, missus, I'll take thruppence more than that for me silence."

Her mouth fell open. This little bastard was years, almost a decade, away from his first shave, and he drove a harder bargain than any street vendor she had ever known. "Fine," she bit out eventually. "A shilling and three, you shall have it when you return."

"Oh no, missus," he grinned. "It's a shilling and sixpence now – you were too eager, see? _You_ want it done, and _I'll_ name the price."

He had gone too far now. "Oh no you don't, you little scoundrel!" snapped back Isabella. "Two can play at that game: you shall have a shilling and three, since you know how to drive a hard bargain, but press me for a farthing more and my offer returns to a shilling. Take your own offer, or take mine, but don't you insult my intelligence!"

Hareton looked again at her, and smiled, a new respect coming to his young eyes. He spat on his plump little hand, and Isabella, feeling not a little bemused, shook it. Then he took the letter from her, and all but ran to the door.

He stopped for just a moment, looking back accusingly. "By the way, miss: no offence meant, but you can't milk to save yer life. You've got cream all up yer dress."

Her mouth opened, but before she could summon a word of indignant reply, the boy was gone, tearing across the field towards the moors, calling the dogs for company as he ran.

Isabella's fingers touched the white stain upon her breast, just briefly, and then a smile of realisation came to her face and she tore out of the kitchen, making for the milking yard.

…

"Oh Joseph," exclaimed Isabella, as the old servant came into the kitchen where she sat with a bowl of porridge she had made, rather inexpertly, for herself. "I fear I may have made something of a mess in the barn: I thought to do the milking for the household, but my work was awful – well, you can see for yourself!" she added, gesturing to the spots upon her dress. "Would you be a wonderful dear, and see to the cows? I daresay they will be anxious for not having been properly milked by now."

…

Hindley Earnshaw struggled to focus, as he stared in confusion at the coins on his bedside table. He was quite sure he had had more than that when he lay down the night before, but perhaps that was the drink confounding him: it was not the first time he had thought money lost overnight, and what other explanation was there?


	12. Chapter 12 - The Wisewoman

**Author's Note: Thanks to 'Neomistress', 'Agagite Whispers', and 'romy', for their kind reviews so far. It's things like that that make me want to keep writing!**

**Also, this chapter contains some sexual content. Reader discretion is advised.**

The next four days passed for Isabella in an agony of anticipation.

Heathcliff continued to heap servant's work upon her, from putting the household in order – and when Hindley had been awake, it was no small job to undo the damage he did to the running of the house – to cleaning the cow barns. Each night, she was banished continually to a different room from her husband, whether or not he had used her for his pleasure, and heard his voice in the night, screaming the name that was not hers.

She bore it all with as much patience as she could, all the while hoping to hear back from Martha, and yet not knowing whether she would reply, or even if her message had been received.

It was not the continual debasement and degradation that pulled at her heart, nor the hard, unending work: she was growing used to that, and fancied she was growing stronger, too, so that her chores exhausted her less by the day. She found she was rather proud of her meagre achievements, and looked forward to Heathcliff's viewing of her work; for while he attempted to criticise, she could tell it was through a desire to hurt her, rather than any fault of her own, and she, having chosen to win his heart through suffering, found it oddly gratifying to see her own plans work so painfully.

Nor was she hurt by his use of her body, for he took her to a desperate ecstasy each time he did so, sneering that he would force her pleasure from her, and making good on the threat; and even as her cheeks burned with shame and her mind reeled in confusion, she could not deny her own enjoyment. And though he sent her from the room each time, not deigning to so much as look at her; she at least had the pleasure and the memory of his touch, and so she found she was not as hurt as she might have been.

But she still wept when he called Cathy's name.

…

It was on the morning of the fifth day, whilst Isabella was alone and taking a well-deserved break for tea – for Heathcliff was out riding, Joseph was at church, and Hindley had staggered out she knew not where, presumably to liquidate more of his assets ready to gamble it away; and so no-one remained to scold her for idleness – that young Hareton came running in to her, threw a letter upon the table, and snatched the milk jug from the table, drinking greedily from it without recourse to a cup or tankard.

Isabella would have scolded him for his rudeness, but her heart had leapt upon seeing the letter, and she could not scold the tiny, dirty angel who had brought it to her, however revoltingly reminiscent of Hindley the boy appeared as he slurped and gurgled at the lip of the pitcher.

Instead, she grabbed the letter from the table, thanked the boy hastily, and retreated to her room so as to read in blessed solitude.

…

_Dear Isabella,_

_I well remember you, my dear, and read your letter with great interest (it's hidden safely away, so don't you fret about its discovery)._

_Now, as to what you were asking me, I shall do my best to reply, for I confess I was flattered by your praise of me; but I fear you may find my words a little harsh for your taste. I make no apology for any of them, though, as you shall see._

_First of all, whilst I cannot but agree that his treatment of you is cruel, I will say that you are doing right by your obedience, and I think you know that already. And furthermore, I will say that there is nothing 'depraved' in finding pleasure in hard work, nor even in suffering for your love, and so neither is it wrong for you to enjoy anything your husband might visit upon you, good or ill, should you so please. You are your own woman, for goodness' sake, and if something brings you pleasure (and if it is not a sin – and no husband's attentions can be sinful things, my girl, before you start fearing for your soul), then let it do so, and your life shall be the happier for it._

_As to your husband taking the time to bring you pleasure after he has had his own at your expense: well, there I feel I must speak plainly, and you may take offence if you wish, but it shall not change the truth of what I tell you now._

_I have been working in this same inn for nigh-on twenty-five years, and I have heard every complaint a woman might make concerning her husband. I have heard tales of lazy men, selfish men, cruel men, ugly men, and men who take their pleasure and have done with it; but not once have I heard a woman complain about her husband for taking the time to bring her pleasure, and with good reason!_

_Perhaps you remember I told you how your husband notices things that other men may miss? This, my girl, is a perfect case in point. Perhaps you may think he intends to cause you some pain by bringing you to such feelings, but I will tell you plain, girl, you may enjoy it to your heart's content, for there's not a woman in Yorkshire that wouldn't jump at the chance of a husband who'd make such an effort for them as yours does for you, regardless of whether he were moved by love or by spite! Be proud, dear Isabella, that you have a husband that, cruel as he may seem, would earn you the envy of every woman you will ever meet, not least that 'Cathy' you mentioned…_

That last comment brought a wry smile to Isabella's face as she remembered the knowing face of Martha. She could well imagine how the woman had laughed to think of Cathy's jealousy, and she permitted herself a small giggle in her own turn.

_And now we come to the most important part of my reply to you. My dear, affections and obsessions are not broken quickly or easily. If you are resolved to win your husband's heart, as I was resolved to win the heart of my own, so many years ago, you must not live in expectations of a quick and easy victory._

_I am sure you will remember I told you of my husband, and his affection for a woman called Abigail? Well, as I told you, after five years he had forgotten the girl's name; though I confess I never have, and many's the time I've caught myself remembering her bitterly, lost in remembrance of how he thought of her, and not of me. I pray God keep my hands busy, for I don't think of it when I'm working, but I remember just the same, even though he, I am certain, does not._

_It has been but a few days, girl, since you married your husband! It took me five years to break the spell of that woman on my William; and just between you and I, there was much more effort on my part than I had the time to tell you of when you stayed with us._

So Martha had schemed to win her husband's heart! Isabella remembered the malevolent gleam that had come to Martha's eyes when she spoke of the spinster that 'Abigail' had become, and the thought came to her that perhaps this was the one woman in all the world that could truly, actually help her.

_Now, I shall give you what knowledge I can regarding men's hearts, and you may use it as you please. I make no claims as to the morality of manipulating a man's heart, mind; but I cared little for such things when I was young, and I care still less for them now._

_Firstly, a man who loves a woman from afar, without the closeness of marriage or the attachments of physical love (you know well what I mean, girl, so don't play the innocent with me), puts her upon a pedestal, as sculptors place their finest works. What I mean is that a man infatuated with a woman will remember all her virtues, whether she has them or not, and will fail to see the vices that she displays, no matter how openly._

_If you want to win a man's heart from another woman, then, you must break that pedestal. Bring her vices to him; smash those illusions of virtue he has built for her inside his head; bring her low in his eyes until he cannot ignore her vices. I warn you now, though: this can make a man angry, for he shall feel as though he were tricked, and you must take care to ensure his anger falls upon her, not you (especially if he has a cruel streak in him, and I will remember you in my prayers tonight for what you have told me thus far)._

_Secondly, be aware that just as love is a strong feeling, so is hate. And hate can be just as obsessive as love, and distract a man's heart from you just as much. If you can break his feelings for her, then you must be careful, for if he comes to hate her as passionately as he once loved her, she shall still steal his thoughts away from you; and it should be a crying shame to work and scheme, only to lose his heart forever to hateful feelings, as the result of your own success! Therefore, take care to make this Cathy repel him, rather than attracting him through his own notions of hate and revenge._

_Make her disgust him, until he wishes no association with her; or better still, find ways to make him indifferent, so she could pass him in the street and he will not recognise her. It is difficult, and you will have to keep your wits about you, but I am sure you are an intelligent girl, and I wish you every success._

_I daresay we shall exchange correspondence again, my dear, and indeed I hope so; for I confess myself curious as to how your efforts shall progress…_

_Yours,_

_Martha._

…

Isabella sat in silence, her hands shaking. Thoughts and emotions ran through her head, each leaping the other, throwing her mind into turmoil. Martha was offering her aid, even as she mocked her shame; she stretched out the hand of wise friendship, and yet presented her impish warning of the immorality of the very actions she herself suggested, and Isabella found herself questioning her own motives.

But perhaps that too was Martha's intention: to force Isabella to question her own resolve, before embarking on her quest to destroy Cathy in Heathcliff's eyes, as Martha had, in her own turn, ruined this Abigail in her William's.

Her hands stilled themselves. The question was asked, and answered. She would do it.

And no stir of conscience would hinder her now.


End file.
